


Freeman's Hold

by imadra_blue



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Adventure, Angst and Humor, Background f!Hawke/Isabela, Canon - Video Game, Complete, Developing Relationship, Drama, F/F, Gen, Grey Warden Alistair, M/M, POV Third Person Limited, Post-Canon, Potential Fenders, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-10
Updated: 2014-04-10
Packaged: 2018-01-18 21:05:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,428
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1442845
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imadra_blue/pseuds/imadra_blue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Shortly after the closing of Dragon Age II, Alistair the Grey Warden encounters Yndra Hawke, Isabela, Zevran Arainai, and Fenris while hunting the fugitive Anders in the Vimmark Mountains.  Set against his duty by Hawke's determination to save Anders, Alistair follows her towards the Grey Warden ruins of Freeman's Hold.  Along the way, he struggles with his loneliness, and with Zevran's smart comments.  And with Zevran in his personal space.  And with Zevran's marvelous back.  It would almost be like the good old days in Ferelden again, only Alistair is not the same man that he was ten years ago.  Neither is Zevran.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Moontyger](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Moontyger/gifts).



> Canon: Since there are so many possible outcomes, this story is based on Dragon Age: Origins outcome where a female mage Warden made the Ultimate Sacrifice, made Anora Queen, and left Alistair alone as a Grey Warden. I tried to explain no more and no less than I felt that the story needed. This is set a month or two after the events of Dragon Age II.
> 
> Author's Note: This, uh, got long. Hope it's not too long for you, and that you enjoy it. :)
> 
> Beta Reader: Many thanks to AwayLaughing for the magically fast beta reading! All mistakes that remain are my own.

Alistair started awake the instant cold water splashed his face. He gasped for air and blinked rapidly, but could not see. All he felt was cold. And wet. All he needed was a little mud, and he'd feel like he was back home in Ferelden.

"Is he awake?" asked a familiar female voice.

"I don't think so. Let me try something else," said a very familiar male voice. Alistair managed to identify the voice just as a hand slapped him so hard that he was able to see a swarthy elven face peering at him.

"That's the third time you've slapped him, Zevran," an unfamiliar female voice noted, confirming Alistair's identification. It also confirmed his desire to slap Zevran back, but all he managed to do was make his hand twitch a bit.

Zevran looked up, flashing suspiciously white teeth as he smiled. "Madame Hawke, I'll have you know it's the fourth time." Hawke! Yndra Hawke! Alistair needed to speak to her about her former companion. Alistair struggled to move again, but his body refused to cooperate.

"It's definitely the fourth time," said the familiar female voice. "He slapped him when you went to go get the cold water." A dark face peered over Zevran, and though it took a moment, Alistair recognized Isabela, the lady pirate that he'd very nearly had a threesome with once.

Zevran peered back into Alistair's face. "His eyes are open. I bet if we had a bottle of wine, I could get him to speak."

"Wine does not improve your health after being struck with magic," said the unfamiliar female voice, now confirmed as Hawke's.

"Well, no," Zevran admitted. "But it certainly aids my creative inspiration when reviving unconscious Wardens."

Isabela pushed Zevran aside. "We don't need wine for that." She leaned over and twisted Alistair's nipple with the sort of cruelty one would associate less with a pirate and more with a Tevinter slaver. Pain narrowed his world to his left nipple. Alistair screamed and sat up as quick as a catapult. "See, look at that," she drawled.

Alistair ignored everyone as he doubled over and clutched his aching nipple. He moaned a little, but this did not dissuade anyone from speaking about him as if he wasn't there. After a few moments, the pain subsided enough that he could form words. "What happened?" he slurred.

Zevran stared at him curiously, still crouched beside him. He wore green leathers that Alistair had never seen him wearing before. "That's amazing. I've never seen anyone drool so much in the space of two words. And I once had to sit through an entire dinner with an Orlesian noble before I assassinated him."

"Isabela, why do his stories always end in assassination?" Hawke asked.

"Well, he is an assassin. But to be fair, they just as often end in meaningless sex."

Alistair wiped his mouth and gave Zevran what he hoped was his nastiest glare, but Zevran didn't look particularly impressed. Hawke's imposing presence drew Alistair's attention. He had only met her once, when the Qunari had run rampant in Kirkwall a few years ago, but somehow she seemed taller. He wondered if that was because of the stories he'd heard about her, or because he was sitting down. She wore a dark coat with a red scarf tied about her waist, and her hair fell about her shoulders. A man might consider her beautiful if it weren't for the harsh, unforgiving stare she gave everyone but Isabela. Hawke had strapped her magic staff to her back, reminding Alistair of what she was. And what was happening. His irritation at Zevran was now replaced by his sense of duty.

"Milady, I need to speak to you," Alistair said, attempting to stand. Zevran moved to help him, but Alistair shrugged him off. He didn't want help, especially from a scamp. Andraste only knew where Zevran had been last. Alistair managed to get to his feet, and though the world wobbled a little, he remained on his feet.

Hawke's face remained expressionless. It was like speaking to a Chantry statue. "You're already speaking to me, Warden."

"It's about your former companion. And a former Grey Warden. Anders." Alistair swallowed and found his throat dry, despite how his clothes hung wet about him. He hoped his armor wouldn't rust. "He's escaped this way. He attacked me when I caught up to him."

"Yes. I know," Hawke said, studying Alistair's face. She had the same eerily light blue eyes as her cousin, Tori Amell. The same luxurious black hair. The same pointed chin, the same generous mouth. But the similarities ended there. Hawke was darker than Isabela, whilst Tori had a bronzed complexion closer to Zevran's. Hawke's eyes lacked Tori's epicanthic folds, and her cheekbones were not so high. Hawke also demonstrated a visible confidence Tori had never possessed, at least in life. Her spine must have been made of silverite. No wonder she had bested an Arishok. Alistair was several inches taller than her, yet somehow felt small under her unforgiving gaze.

Silence fell over the four of them, and Alistair finally glanced down at himself. He still felt cold, so very cold. It was only the glowing elf in spiky armor that had saved Alistair from freezing to death from Anders's ice magic. He had appeared out of nowhere, shouting at Anders about his madness. What had happened after that, Alistair did not know. The world had grown black and quiet until Hawke had attempted to drown him on dry ground.

Alistair looked up. "I saw an elf." He glanced at Zevran. "Not that elf. Another elf. Dark skin, white hair, spiky armor. Glows a bit, actually. Appeared out of nowhere."

"That would be Fenris," Isabela said with a nod. "He left a sign on a tree nearby to take care of you."

"His handwriting is atrocious," Zevran said, holding up a piece of parchment. Alistair glanced at it and had to agree with Zevran. It looked like something a small child would write. Some of the letters had been written backwards.

Hawke scowled. "He has made remarkable progress at it. Regardless, which way did they go?"

Alistair glanced over at her. "No clue. I had taken an involuntary nap. But if I had to guess, I'm going to say the old Warden ruins near here. It's really the only building nearby."

"Then we must follow them, before Fenris kills Anders."

"Or Anders kills Fenris," Isabela frowned. "That's just as likely."

Alistair sighed. "I was given the express order to find Anders and bring him back to the Divine. Dead or alive."

"I wasn't aware that the Divine could give Grey Wardens orders," Hawke said with a scowl.

"She can't, normally. But there is a war going on because a former Warden decided to blow up a Chantry on a lark. So the First Warden agreed."

Hawke turned on her heel. "He didn't do it on a lark."

Alistair studied her rigid posture. Perhaps it was tension that made her seem so steely. Tori had been tense with him at first, too. After all, it was no secret that he had been a templar. "Is that why you let him live? Because it wasn't on a lark?"

Hawke glanced back at him. "I let him live, because what's the point of regret if you die? Everyone dies at some point. But not everyone lives to regret what they've done. Not everyone can atone."

"But he's a dangerous murderer. He destroyed—"

"I know what he's done!" Hawke slashed her arm through the air, and Alistair fell silent. Her eyes blazed at him, just as Tori's had when she defended her choice to save as many mages as she could in Ferelden's Circle. He could only swallow in response.

Isabela walked up behind Hawke and wrapped her arms about the other woman's waist. The fury seemed to drain from her, and she did not seem so rigid as before. Hawke looked away, towards the horizon. The Vimmark Mountains stretched around them, the rocky terrain dotted only by the occasional tenacious tree. Wind fluttered about them, reminding Alistair how cold he was.

Zevran leaned close to Alistair. "I wouldn't needle Kirkwall's Champion right now. Kirkwall burned because Starkhaven's prince finished what the mages and templars started. The few mages that survived were all slaughtered. There's a war now that spread everywhere. Just about the only person Hawke was able to spare is the bloody mage that started it all. You can see why she's a bit sensitive."

Alistair swallowed again, almost able to imagine what it might be like to be Hawke. Tori had died because of him. He realized it, foolishly, when Sten, Zevran, and Wynne had carried her body back to him. Perhaps that was why Alistair couldn't bring himself to look at Zevran for very long. He had let Tori die. And so had Alistair, when he agreed to remain at the gate while she took on the Archdemon with a Qunari, a Crow, and another mage. Though the years had dulled his pain, they had not dulled his guilt.

Hawke set her shoulders and stepped away from Isabela. She put a hand on the other woman's shoulder and smiled a bit, an odd expression on her queenly face, then turned back to Alistair. Her countenance sharpened and hardened almost instantly. "I'm going to find Fenris and Anders before this escalates. You can either come or stay, Warden. But I will not allow you to kill Anders, nor bring him to the bloody Divine. I am tired of death. It has been my constant companion since Lothering was beset by darkspawn. I am especially tired of vengeance. It was Vengeance that led to this damned war."

Alistair sighed and glanced about. Isabela stared at the ground, scuffing her boots against a rock. Zevran watched him with the sort of curiosity that Alistair usually attributed to cats when confronted by dangly things. Hawke stared at him with a cold intensity that reminded Alistair more of Shale than of Tori. Either way, he didn't have the desire or drive to fight Hawke; he'd always been a better follower than a leader.

"Oh, fine. Why not? It's only my career as a Grey Warden and possibly my head that's on the line."

"That's the spirit," Isabela said, grinning.

"If it's any consolation," Zevran said solemnly, putting a hand on Alistair's shoulder, "I've always said you would look better without a head."

"Or trousers. He could do without the trousers," Isabela added.

Zevran glanced down at Alistair's trousers. "It's true. Those trousers are hideous. Even the armor can't hide it. Stripes? Really?"

Alistair sighed. For the first time in years, he actually studied Zevran. He seemed to have barely aged a day since the Blight, though his hair seemed a lighter blond. He looked thin beneath his green leather armor, and Alistair wondered if he'd been eating properly. He recalled Zevran had stopped eating for three days after he brought back Tori's body. He only ate again after Wynne force-fed him after the funeral. Alistair, on the other hand, hadn't stopped eating after Tori's death. He'd spend hours at the dinner table, eating with two hands. It was only after he couldn't fit into his armor anymore that he forced himself on an exercise routine that he was forced to maintain to this day, lest the excessive amount of mutton and bread and cheese and pies he ate overtake his waistline again.

"If you're both finished trying to be clever, let's get a move on. I'd like to make some progress before we make camp," Hawke snapped, and started walking down the side of the mountain.

"' _Trying_ to be clever?'" Isabela asked, sounding offended. She followed Hawke, hurrying her step to catch up.

"Ladies first," Zevran said, gesturing towards Alistair with a courtly bow.

Alistair glared at him. "I prefer to bring up the rear." He winced, regretting his words half a second after they came out of his mouth.

"Oh, Alistair!" Zevran said, grinning like a whore who was just paid double his usual rate. He clasped his hands together. "I'm flattered, but Hawke will likely drown us in fireballs if we try that before camp."

"Setting aside the fact that I'd rather pluck out all my pubic hair than have anything to do with your rear, how exactly do you 'drown' in fireballs?"

"If you don't hurry up, she'll show you!" Isabela shouted from below.

Zevran waggled his eyebrows and darted down the mountain path. After a moment spent sighing and questioning his lot in life, Alistair followed.

…

They made camp just before dusk, exhausted from running afoul of a band of mountain bandits with seemingly endless numbers. Though the ensuing battle hadn't caused them too much trouble, all of them were covered in blood by the end, and their bags bulged with newfound loot. Alistair and Zevran had washed up at the river quickly before they set out to make dinner. Their meal had been completed, eaten, and the remains still simmered over the fire by the time Isabela returned, her smart little blue coat still wet and dripping. Alistair could only presume it was blood splatter free by now. She'd been gone nearly two hours. Hawke followed her closely, her own coat as equally wet as Isabela's. It looked like neither of them had put much effort into wringing their clothes dry after washing them. Alistair could not fathom what had possibly taken so long until he noticed Zevran smirking at them.

"You two are still dripping wet," he said, raising his eyebrows.

Isabela grinned, but Hawke scowled. Hawke hung up her coat in the same haughty fashion that Alistair imagined Queen Anora might hang up a wet coat to dry, should she ever deign to do her own laundry. Isabela handed Hawke her own coat, and Hawke hung up that, too.

"If you two need any help mopping up after—"

"Shut up, elf," Hawke snapped. "You weren't invited for a reason."

Isabela gave Zevran a sympathetic look. "She's not very good at sharing. She's not going to let you have that bottle of Orlesian wine we found on the mountain bandits, either." It suddenly dawned on Alistair exactly what Hawke and Isabela might have been doing for the past two hours. It wasn't washing clothes.

"At least it's not Antivan brandy. That would be too much to bear," Zevran said sadly. "But I my offer stands, in case you change your mind."

"Not unless you wake up with a vagina," Hawke said, crawling inside the tent.

"That would be a marvelous trick. I only wish I knew how to go about it without interfering with my dick," Zevran said, staring down at his own crotch as if trying to figure out the secret behind it.

Isabela grabbed two bowls and dumped stew into both. "You'd have to lose that. She's not into them at all, I'm afraid."

Zevran looked mournful. "Alas, I'm quite attached to it."

Isabela winked. "I know you are. But I'm attached to someone else. It's quite challenging, but monogamy isn't nearly as bad as you might think." She disappeared inside Hawke's tent, and Alistair remembered enough evenings spent tucked into Tori's tent to recall that she wasn't going to come back out any time soon. He sighed and reached for the bottle of wine he had found. He preferred ale, but wine would serve its purpose. He just wanted to forget how much he hated being alone. A part of him would always miss Tori, but that part he could deal with. He loathed being alone, and it did not help he'd spent the last few years doing nothing but solo missions. He had gone through half the bottle of wine when he noticed Zevran staring at him.

"I am not going to suck your dick, Zevran," Alistair snapped, assuming Zevran, as usual, had one thing on his remarkably simple mind. "The bandits didn't have enough wine for that. I imagine all of Orlais doesn't have enough wine for that."

"What if I offered to suck your dick instead?" Zevran asked, smirking.

That actually made Alistair pause. He stared at Zevran, allowing himself a moment to imagine that. Zevran certainly had a pretty mouth—he had a pretty everything, really, if Alistair was to be fair—and his mouth couldn't be much different from the women Alistair had been with. And mouths felt fantastic on cocks. But he was also Zevran. Alistair's mouth opened and closed, and he decided when it opened again, it was best to take another drink of the remarkably cheap, but effective, wine.

"Oh? I made you pause with that one?" Zevran arched an eyebrow. "Gone are the days when I would flirt with you and you wouldn't even notice."

Alistair took another swig of wine. It was growing harder to think, which was always a good sign. "It's been a decade since then, Zevran."

"A decade since her." Zevran stared at the wine in Alistair's hand. His brown eyes seemed golden against the backdrop of the campfire. His expression was soft, devoid of his usual smirks and eyebrow quirks. Alistair had never seen Zevran look so human as in that moment. Alistair recalled that, briefly, Zevran had pursued her, too. When Alistair had said something about it, she agreed to make it clear that she and Zevran were merely friends. Recalling that memory no longer made Alistair jealous. It simply made him sad to think someone else might miss her, too.

Alistair took another drink from the wine bottle and wiped his mouth. His head swam, but he couldn't shake the sadness now.

"She'd want to spare Anders, too, you know," Zevran said, studying Alistair. "They were from the same Circle. They might have even grown up together. She'd want to spare him, just like she spared all those mages in in Ferelden. She'd have tried to protect Kirkwall mages from that mad templar woman, too. I thought of her when I was in that fight with Hawke."

"I know." Alistair eyed the nearly empty bottle of wine. He was glad he had a second bottle. "Hawke and her were cousins, you know. I found out from the Wardens' historians, when Tori's story was recorded. Makes it harder to say no to Hawke."

"I suppose." Zevran studied Alistair. "You drink so much now. It doesn't suit you, Alistair." He sounded sad, just as he had when speaking about Tori.

Zevran, of all people, feeling sorry for him left Alistair feeling vaguely angry. He might have been even more angry, but he was too drunk to feel anything more than vaguely. "I also prefer to drink alone now, thanks," Alistair said, and uncorked the second bottle of wine.

"With that sort of attitude, I imagine you do a lot of things alone," Zevran said, his tone frosty now. "I would wish you a good night, but there's no point." He disappeared inside his tent without looking back.

Alistair took another swig of wine.

...

_Next Chapter === >_


	2. Chapter 2

...

"That is Fenris's bag," Hawke said as Zevran held up a worn leather pack.

Alistair rubbed his head and reminded himself not to vomit. His hangover was profound enough that he almost regretted drinking himself into oblivion the night before. He might have regretted it less if everyone spoke a little quieter. Blessedly, the sun remained hidden behind clouds. Alistair was grateful for those clouds.

"There's blood on it," Zevran said.

Isabela bit her bottom lip and looked at Hawke who crossed her arms and glared at the bag as if it had personally offended her. She shook her head after a moment. "Let's look for a trail. If either of them were wounded, they might still be nearby."

 _Either that or their corpses._ Alistair decided to keep that morbid thought to himself.

"Oh, you mean look for blood trails," Zevran said, glancing about. He shouldered Fenris's pack. "Though I am suddenly curious why your Fenris is so intent on hunting the mage down. Is he religious?"

Hawke exchanged glances with Isabela. "Not especially," she said.

"But Sebastian is," Isabela said, despite Hawke's scowl. "Sebastian wound Fenris up during battle, blaming Anders and Hawke for everything he did. After Sebastian leveled Kirkwall with Starkhaven's forces, Fenris ran off to hold Anders accountable, and, well, we had to follow."

"What delightful companions you keep, milady," Alistair said, glancing at Hawke. "A mass murderer, a man who levels cities, and a mad elf. Oh, and Zevran."

Zevran glanced back at Alistair. "Don't look at me. I only got involved with this mess to repay Madame Hawke for her kindness in dealing with a personal problem of mine."

Isabela sighed. "Fenris isn't mad. Well, actually, I take that back. He is mad. As in angry. Furious, actually. He used to be a Tevinter slave. He's not that fond of mages."

"This is Sebastian's fault," Hawke said, her flat voice cutting through all the chatter. "And Anders's fault, of course, but Anders isn't entirely to blame. He's been so consumed by Justice that he became Vengeance. So Justice shares the blame with him. But Sebastian? Sebastian's just an arse."

"You do have a way with words, Hawke," Isabela said, giving Hawke the sort of fond look that Tori had once given Alistair.

Zevran stopped by a particularly brutal drop off the side of the mountain. "Here it is. This way."

Following Zevran down the steep rocky slope proved no small feat. Alistair was the most clumsy, especially in his armor, but Hawke stumbled over almost as many rocks as Alistair. Isabela seemed to be doing the best of all the humans, with her roguish agility, but Zevran displayed the same irritating grace of a Dalish in the wilds. As Alistair skidded and stumbled and nearly wound up tripping over the side, he realized Zevran had taken off his boots. Zevran only did that when he was unsure of his footing. So this was hard even for an elf. It was some comfort to Alistair as he pushed himself forward.

"Wait!" Isabela said, skidding to a stop on two rocky outcroppings on a particularly steep part of the slope. "I think I see something."

Hawke paused by a large rock and clung to it, grunting in a fashion even less lady-like than Alistair. Alistair just left himself in the vaguely sideways position he found himself in. At least he was pointed down.

Zevran clambered by like a monkey, leaping from rock to rock until he paused by something that Alistair could not see. He knelt and visibly winced. When he glanced back at Hawke and Isabela, he seemed grave. "I found Fenris. But I'm not sure we should move him. I think he fell all the way down here."

"Out of the way," Hawke grunted, and climbed over Alistair, pulling herself up by the rocks. Her arms shook, and she slipped a few times, causing Isabela to give a small gasp each time, but she made it over to Zevran with only a few scrapes. She swallowed at what she saw there, looking visibly shaken, an expression Alistair had not associated with her. But she composed herself within moments and rolled up her sleeves.

"I can do this. Anders taught me," she said, and laid her hands down upon what Alistair presumed to be Fenris's broken body. Alistair suddenly got a glimpse into why Hawke wanted to save Anders. As the glow of magic began, Alistair closed his eyes, smiling despite himself.

The hum of a Spirit Healer at work always calmed him.

…

Hawke had exhausted herself with healing Fenris. It took both Zevran and Isabela to help her limp down the side of the slope. Fenris, however, remained unconscious. Alistair knew without being asked that he was expected to carry the elf down. When Isabela and Zevran managed to bring him close enough that Alistair could pick him up, Fenris didn't seem to be in such bad condition. Alistair saw numerous bruises and scrapes, but nothing serious. However, his clothes belied how grave his wounds had been before Hawke healed him. His spiked hide armor had shredded and torn beyond repair. Pieces of it were clearly missing. Everything about him seemed soaked in blood. Even his hair, which Alistair recalled to be white, had turned red with blood. Apparently, Hawke was quite the competent Spirit Healer.

Zevran helped Alistair climb down, his hand on Alistair's elbow as he walked beside him, his bare feet traversing the slope with ease as he told Alistair exactly where to place his foot and how much weight to place on it. Alistair found this oddly comforting. He had attached many adjectives to Zevran when they traveled together, but patient had never been one of them until now. The last half of the descent was certainly better than the first half, when he had half-slid on his ass down the slope. Thanks to Zevran, he only jostled Fenris once after placing too much weight on his right leg. Fenris moaned in protest, but did not wake.

Once they reached flat ground, they set about making a camp. Zevran found a deep pool, and Isabela took it upon herself to wash the blood off Fenris. When she returned, his hair was white again, and the rest of his ruined armor had been thrown away. Hawke lay on the ground, too spent to even sit up, and watched Isabela and Zevran lay Fenris inside a tent.

"Tell me about these Grey Wardens ruins nearby, Ser Alistair. Anders must be there," Hawke said, her voice soft now. The pitch of her voice reminded Alistair a little of Tori. But only a little.

Alistair frowned and shrugged off the last of his armor. "It was a small keep we had built during the last Blight. A few centuries ago, one of the mage Wardens living there had his Calling. Unlike most mage Wardens, who simply go into the Deep Roads, this mage Warden made a deal with a Pride demon to stave it off. He murdered every living creature there, from chicken to dog to servant to Warden Commander. We never used it again, so it fell to ruin."

Hawke shut her eyes. "It's always a mage. Always a mage who gets possessed, who murders everyone. Even the ones I trusted, they fell, too. I wonder how long before I fall."

Alistair studied Hawke. A band of gray wound through her hair, gleaming from the campfire that Zevran had built. She seemed old in that moment. Like Tori had, that last night, after Morrigan had emerged from her room. Morrigan had looked furious, but Tori had seemed dangerously pale. Tori's hands shook, and she had avoided looking at Alistair. He had asked her what was wrong, and she only said, "I am weak, and I am selfish." The day after that, Morrigan had not returned, and Tori had died. Alistair still did not know what happened between them. Some sort of argument, but one that had shaken Tori to her core.

"We always talk about the mages who fall," Alistair said. "It's what all the templars discuss, what we're trained to do. Always being vigilant, always waiting for the mages to turn. But we never talk about the ones who don't. Most of them don't, actually. But we're so busy worrying about the ones who do, we forget about the ones who don't. They don't burn themselves in our memories. It's easier to remember the bad and forget the good."

Hawke raised her head and blinked at Alistair. She smiled at him, sadly. "You knew my cousin. I never met her. What was she like?"

Alistair studied the campfire. "Beautiful. Sad, especially at the end. She doubted everything she did, but she did it anyway. She picked up my slack. And she never fell. No matter how weak or selfish she might have thought she was, she died with honor. She sacrificed herself." He paused. "I should have fought her more, on that. I shouldn't have let her go fight the Archdemon without me, but I was weak and selfish, too."

Silence feel between them for a long moment, but eventually Hawke spoke again. "Anders used to be a good man. A kind man. He healed the sick and poor in Kirkwall, the people who needed him most. I chose to remember the good and forget the bad when I spared his life. Perhaps that was a mistake. Sebastian kept his word. And Fenris nearly got himself killed going after Anders alone. But someone has to remember the good. I've lost my entire family: my father to illness, my sister to darkspawn, my brother to the Taint, and my mother to a blood mage. I have seen so many people die, so many people sacrificed. I am tired of watching people die. I want to save Anders. I want him to be able to save himself. I want him to atone for what he's done. I want Vengeance to become Redemption."

Alistair put a hand on her head. Her hair felt just like Tori's. "I want to believe that, too." He stood up and silently helped set up the rest of the camp.

…

It was well past midnight, and Hawke and Isabela were tucked neatly inside their tent. Alistair had drunk his last bottle of wine, and his intoxication threatened to wear off. He dumped himself back in front of his tent and tossed the empty wine flask to the side. Any minute now, he would start remembering how much his life sucked. How much he hated being alone after knowing what it was like to have someone who gave a damn about him.

"Looking for one of these?" Zevran asked, holding out a wine flask. "I found it in Fenris' pack."

"You'd steal an injured man's wine?" Alistair asked, glancing up. The fire flickered off Zevran's hair. It had a slight glimmer of gold to it.

"We saved his life today. We're… celebrating. I'm sure he'd celebrate, too, if he wasn't completely senseless at the moment."

"We're stealing an injured man's wine."

"You said 'we.'"

Alistair snatched the wine from Zevran's hand. "I did, didn't I? Might as well have a seat, since there's a 'we' involved in this wine and all."

Zevran sat down beside Alistair and studied him. Alistair took a swig, finding the wine much nicer than what the mountain bandits had. Apparently Fenris was much choosier about his wine. Zevran remained blessedly silent until Alistair passed him back the flask for his own turn.

"Ten years, and you never moved on," Zevran said, shaking his head.

"What do you mean, 'move on?' I've moved plenty of times in ten years. I've even been to Orlais. Once, I crawled to an outhouse from the fourth floor of an inn. I was very drunk that night. It was quite a lot of moving, however."

"As in moved on from _her_. I'll bet you haven't even had sex once in the last ten years."

"You'd lose that bet." Alistair snatched the flask back from Zevran, though he clearly wasn't done. "I've had sex plenty of times. Not every night, but often enough. Well, often enough for a normal man. Not for a sex-addled lunatic like you."

Zevran arched a brow. "Did you pay for all of it?"

"Not all of it, no."

Zevran stood up, snatched the flask back, and took a long swig.

"What'd you do that for?"

"I wanted to finish my drink," Zevran said, and handed the flask back.

"No, I mean stand up. It hurts my neck to look up."

Zevran chuckled. "Well, if I'm going to stand corrected, I might as well stand. I'm flattered that you're craning your neck to see me. As well you should. I am devastatingly handsome."

"I'll give you handsome." Alistair drank more wine. Only a little left in the flask, and he debated finishing it, but he realized he hadn't had anyone to share wine with years. He handed it back to Zevran. "But not devastatingly, sorry."

"Well, at least you're not calling me pretty. You humans do like to call elven men pretty, as if we were small girls on our way to the local market to buy fruit."

"In our defense, elven men are sort of… feminine."

"Are we?" Zevran finished the wine and tossed the flask behind him. It flopped in the dirt. "That's a matter of perspective. I think human men resemble bears."

"Bears! At least 'pretty' is a compliment."

"Depends on who's saying it and why." Zevran produced another wine flask from his shirt. He left it half-buttoned. Alistair tried not to let his gaze linger on Zevran's bared chest. The curl of a black tattoo peeked out, making Alistair wonder about the rest of the designed. Zevran opened the wine flask and took a deep drink. He did not offer Alistair any, but instead studied him with chin tilted up, giving Zevran an almost regal countenance from Alistair's angle. Alistair recalled the histories, when elves had their own kingdoms and lived forever. Echoes of that existed in their descendants if he looked from the right angle.

"I don't think being called a bear will ever be complimentary," Alistair said. "They're mean and try to eat people's faces."

"The same can be said for human men." Zevran smirked. "You call us 'pretty,' because you wish to treat us like you do your women. Only human women get at least a little more respect than we do, presumably because they can give you strapping human children. An elven man is twice as likely to be taken for a whore. Then again, he's twice as likely to be a whore. Did I ever tell you that I was born in a brothel?"

Alistair did not respond. His head swam from wine, and he wasn't sure why Zevran pursued this topic. It bordered on a serious discussion. If anyone was worse at serious discussions than Alistair, it would have to be Zevran.

"I told _her_ , though. I told her many things about myself. She was the first human who ever treated me like I was, well, human." Zevran took another swig of wine. He did not have to say Tori's name for Alistair to know who she meant.

"But you're an elf. Do you even want to be treated like a human?"

Zevran smiled and held out the new flask of wine. "Yes. Because 'human' means a person to other humans." He studied Alistair so intently that it occurred to Alistair through his own fog of inebriation that Zevran was equally inebriated. And talking far too much about things Alistair probably had no right to hear.

Though the world spun furiously, Alistair managed to get to his feet on the second try. He took the flask of wine and looked down at Zevran. Instead of regal, now he seemed young and vulnerable. Perspective changed everything. Alistair took a drink from the flask as Zevran watched and then capped it. He started to button Zevran's shirt back up, hiding the mysterious tattoo on his surprisingly smooth skin.

"Why're you doing that?" Zevran asked.

"Because it's cold."

Zevrn took a moment to speak again. "Did you ever wonder why she didn't let you be king, Alistair?" The way Alistair's name rolled off Zevran's tongue pleased him for some inexplicable reason. The question, however, did not. Alistair dropped his hands, leaving the last button on Zevran's shirt undone. A bronzed collarbone peeked out, and Alistair wondered what sort of noise Zevran would make if he sucked on it. But Zevran didn't seem interested in that sort of thing for once. Instead, he studied Alistair, clearly waiting for an answer.

"Because she didn't trust me to be king," Alistair admitted. "And rightly so. I'd be terrible at it."

"Maybe she wanted you to be happy."

"Yes, of course. Because my life is nothing but rainbows and gamboling kittens thanks to her."

Zevran half-smiled, his gaze never leaving Alistair's face. "You know, I like bears sometimes." Not only were his comments growing more random, but Alistair was having a harder time following them. It took him a moment to realize why Zevran was talking about bears. Bears were like human men to him. Alistair was a human man. Ergo…

"But only sometimes." Zevran's expression darkened, and he stumbled away, back towards his own tent, leaving Alistair alone in the dark.

It was all right. Alistair was used to it by then.

...

_Next Chapter == >_


	3. Chapter 3

…

Fenris woke with the morning, and his stumbling woke up everyone else. Isabela caught him before he fell, and Hawke stood a few feet away, her arms crossed. Alistair climbed out of the tent and stood, studying Fenris.

"I owe you a debt. You saved my life in the last fight," Alistair said, when Fenris's hot gaze rested on him. "Thank you."

"Where is he?" Fenris ground out, apparently not interested in Alistair's gratitude. His voice reminded Alistair more of the werewolves in Fereldan than any elf he had spoken to before. Fenris's voice made him sound feral. Behind him, Zevran approached, and paused within several feet, his expression neutral.

Hawke looked down at her scuffed boots. "I presume you mean Anders. He's likely in the Grey Warden ruins near here."

Fenris paused and let go of Isabela to stand on his own. "Where's my armor?"

"Torn to pieces," Isabela said. "We left it behind."

Fenris bared his teeth. "He destroyed my armor."

"Hardly his worst crime," said Hawke. "Especially considering that armor was given to you by Danarius."

Alistair did not know who Danarius was, but Fenris could not have looked more as if he had been struck if Hawke had stepped physically slapped him. Fenris breathed deeply, but when he spoke, he still sounded as if he were growling. "He nearly killed me."

"To be fair, you were trying to kill him, too," Isabela said gently, but held up her hands when Fenris glared at her.

Fenris turned back to Hawke. "He murdered hundreds of people for the sake of petty vengeance. I can't believe you would spare his life again."

"So did Sebastian, yet when he spoke to you, you took it upon yourself to hunt Anders down." Hawke's gaze sharpened to a point. "But Sebastian made his decisions on his own. Anders made them with Justice. I don't think Anders would have made the decision without Justice in his head. Or Vengeance, now. And I don't care about Vengeance. Only Anders."

"He's an abomination," Fenris spat.

"I know."

"Why?" Fenris shook his head, looking visibly upset. "Why do you insist on saving him?"

"Because we all deserve to be saved. All of us. And no one else will bother."

Fenris was silent for a moment, then glanced between Isabela and Hawke. His gaze shifted over Zevran and Alistair. "And how do you propose to go about this saving?"

Alistair stepped forward. "Excuse me, but may I ask exactly what is going on? This Anders… is he possessed by a demon? If so, trying to save him from that will be particularly difficult."

Hawke glanced at him, her eyes dark under the morning sun. "Anders allowed a Fade spirit to inhabit him years ago. Its name was Justice. Now, it's Vengeance."

It all suddenly clicked. "Okay, that fits," Alistair said. "The Wardens have a record of a Fade spirit named Justice working for the Orlesian Warden Commander in Vigil's Keep, alongside Anders."

"It's not like a demon possession. But it is a possession." Hawke sighed.

Fenris glared at the ground. "It's an abomination."

"Maybe." Alistair frowned and thought of Connor and of Tori so desperate to save him. But she had refused to be complicit in blood magic, and it cost Connor his life. That decision had haunted her until she died. It haunted Alistair as well. He glanced at Hawke. "A blood mage once told Tori how to save a little boy who had become abomination. Blood magic could send her to the Fade to confront the demon. But she refused, and we had to kill the boy. I put the sword through him myself."

Hawke looked up at the sky. "A Dalish Keeper once sent me into the Fade to save a boy from a demon. I killed that boy."

Alistair understood that guilt. That sort of guilt had propelled Tori to sacrifice her life and compelled Hawke to save a man who probably did not deserve it. It also compelled Alistair to help Hawke. "Is that what you're going to do?"

Hawke nodded once. Fenris snapped his gaze up to her face. His green eyes blazed with a fury that Alistair had rarely seen on anyone not possessed by a Rage demon.

"This is the same sort of weakness that led Sebastian to lay siege to Kirkwall," Fenris snapped.

"The only one who proved weak was Sebastian." Hawke shook her head. "I understand why you hate mages, Fenris, but if you ever trusted me, even a little, listen to me now. Anders claims he was fully accountable for his actions, but I think it was Vengeance as much as him. And I think Anders cannot fix what he has broken if you bury your blade in his heart. We have all done terrible things. All of us." She gave Fenris a meaningful look. "He wanted freedom. And I'm going to give him freedom from Vengeance. Does freedom still mean something to you?"

Fenris's expression remained fixed during this exchange, his body tense. After a long moment of silence, he looked up at the sky. "Performing blood magic will not end well."

"Explain to me how anything has ended well without it."

Fenris lowered his face and looked Hawke straight in the eye. "I will accept your decision, even if I disagree with it. As I always have. We can all be equally damned. For freedom's sake." Even Alistair could hear the sarcasm in the last statement, but at least Fenris seemed sincere about his loyalty.

Hawke returned his gaze, then nodded once. She glanced about the group. "Then let's pack up and get moving."

Alistair exchanged glances with Zevran, who had remained silent during the entire conversation. Zevran nodded at him and slipped a blade back into his belt. The entire time he had been ready to kill someone, but Alistair wondered who. Fenris? Hawke? Alistair? Surely he wouldn't kill Isabela. Alistair realized how little he truly knew about Zevran and his motivations, though they had fought at each other's back for several months during the last Blight.

That thought filled Alistair with a sadness he could not quite explain.

…

The sun had long set by the time they approached the ruins of the Grey Wardens' keep. The Vimmark Mountains finally lay behind them, and the ruins lay nestled within the rocky terrain that extended far beyond the mountain range. Alistair, perhaps because he was the tallest of the group, had spotted the half-crumbled towers of the fortress first. But night drew them all short when they saw the hollowed, broken remains of the fortress. A lack of upkeep had led to the right tower's collapse. The windows and doors opened into gaping blackness, wood rotted by rain and neglect. The overall shape reminded Anders of a half-dead dragon, wounded, but still dangerous enough to take a small army with it if need be. If Anders was inside, there was no sign of him, and Alistair was even less eager to explore the eerie ruins with an abomination potentially lurking about every corner.

"We have to stop here," Isabela told Hawke, firmly.

Hawke eyed the ruins a moment longer, then sighed. "Fine," she said.

Fenris, who had lagged behind the entire day, came to a stop near Alistair. He scowled at the ruins. Alistair hadn't known him long, but he scowled at most everything, making it difficult to guess what he was thinking. To Alistair's surprise, Fenris turned to him.

"Warden, tell me, what was the name of this place when it operated?"

"Oh, that. Freeman's Hold."

"Freeman's Hold?" Fenris frowned now, which was less intense than his scowls, at least. "Why did they call it that?"

"Because it was founded by free men. And women, too, though that didn't stop them from choosing a rather womanless name. The original group that built and founded this place were former slaves of the Tevinter Imperium."

Fenris appeared stunned. He blinked rapidly and swallowed twice before speaking again. "Did… did the mage—Anders—know this?"

"Who knows?" Alistair shrugged. "He might have, if he'd bothered to read any of our histories before he ran off."

Fenris fell silent and then wandered off. Alistair wasn't sure the conversation had ended until he walked away. Though an elf, he had a manner than reminded Alistair more of Sten than any other elf he met. Alistair sighed and set up his tent, which proved a challenge in the dark. Even the light of the fire that Hawke had conveniently started with her magic didn't help as much as Alistair wished it had. He was twice as exhausted as usual by the time he finished. He ate the camp stew that Zevran made without complaint, despite the telltale markers of Zevran's cooking, namely too much salt. It reminded Alistair of being in the Blight again, covered in mud, waiting by the fire for a bowl. Everyone in their camp had switched off cooking duties, and Zevran's food was usually considered one of the better days. Even if he used too much salt, his stew came out edible. The same could not be said for everyone else's efforts. They had all been much better at killing darkspawn than they were at cooking.

After eating and reminiscing, Alistair kept to himself, listening to the chatter around him.

"Anders might attack us while we sleep," Fenris growled out.

"Oh good," Isabela said. "It will save us the trouble of having to find him."

Hawke settled the matter. "We will take turns standing watch."

"I'll take first watch," Zevran said quickly. He always did have a fondness for his beauty sleep.

Alistair wound up with third watch, which was the worst watch. He didn't particularly care. Although his eyelids drooped, sleep did not come. He had no wine left, and cleaning his armor and sharpening his sword only took as long as Zevran's watch. At a loss, he sat, arms folded around his knees, thinking of nothing at all as the hours passed. Or at least trying not to. The stark fact that he was alone still haunted him, as it had ever since Tori died. All his friends were dead or back in Ferelden. He hadn't seen Eamon or Teagan in years. It was especially hard to look Eamon in the eyes after Alistair had been the one to kill Connor. 

Being a Warden was far preferable to being a templar, but it came with hard decisions. Over the last few years, Alistair found they, and life, just got harder and harder. Maybe it was because the older he got, the more the corruption inside him grew, or maybe it was because he couldn't stand the loneliness of the solo missions he was assigned. Ostensibly, he received those missions because his superiors trusted him, but Alistair knew better. He was the only surviving Warden to have fought in the last Blight. No one felt all that comfortable around him. Alistair didn't blame them. He often didn't feel comfortable around himself.

Isabela took the fourth watch, having lost a bet with Hawke, and shortly after she took over, Zevran emerged from his tent, wearing only his leather trousers. He glanced at Alistair, eyes barely darting over him, before he walked over to Isabela. Alistair tried to go back to staring at the dirt, but Zevran's bared back kept drawing his attention. Pretty or not, Zevran had a remarkably muscular back, for all his slenderness. Black tattoos stretched over his shoulder blades, curving like wings. Another tattoo peeked out from the top of his trousers, suggesting more had been etched over his admittedly well-shaped ass. Alistair found those tattoos mesmerizing, wishing to see even more, his gaze fixed on how Zevran's muscled corded and bunched beneath the tattoos, causing them to change shape. He had occasionally been fascinated by men before, but he had found it easy to ignore most of those flash infatuations. And yet, his eyes remained trained Zevran's back.

After some discussion, Zevran accepted a flask from Isabela and turned around. On his chest, the tattoo that Alistair had seen part of the day before wove its way down Zevran's flat stomach and into his trousers, as it pointing straight towards his cock. Air left Alistair's lungs almost audibly. Instead of disappearing back inside his tent, however, Zevran marched over to Alistair and held out the flask of rich amber liquid. "Antivan brandy. It will help you sleep."

Alistair gaped. "You'd give me Antivan brandy?"

"You've been up the whole night. It's pathetic. And you're our main defensive warrior. There's little sense in having the only man with a shield useless because of insomnia. Take it."

"That's expensive stuff." Alistair said even as he raised his hand. As he took the flask from Zevran, he brushed his fingers intentionally against the other man's. It gave him a small thrill. "The cheap stuff would do just as well."

Zevran shrugged. "If you're feeling guilty, you are free to share."

Alistair popped the cork out of the bottle, amazed that Isabela had not cracked the glass during their rough descent down the slope to find Fenris. "Then have a seat."

Unsurprisingly, Zevran sat down far too close to Alistair and rested his hand on his chin to study him with a smirk. Alistair didn't mind as much as he used to. In fact, he welcomed the warmth of another living being so close to him. Alistair passed over the bottle so Zevran could take first drink. Zevran considered the bottle and then took a good long drink before passing the bottle back to Alistair. Alistair took a long drink, as well. He had never had Antivan brandy before, but it was smoother than he expected. Fruity and sweet, but powerful.

After wiping his mouth, Alistair passed the bottle back. "Why are you even sticking around? Tori guilted you into it, but Hawke?"

Zevran shrugged. "Hawke is quite serious. I couldn't leave Isabela in such dire straits for too long. And besides, there's always a chance Hawke will crack and agree to a threesome."

"You are a miracle of enthusiasm," Alistair said, and snatched the bottle back. "Do you think about anything other than sex?"

"Certainly. Sometimes I think about food. And footwear. And killing people with sharp objects. But mostly, sex."

Alistair took a long drink. "Must be nice to be so simple."

Zevran studied him before responding, his eyes almost golden when they reflected the firelight. "You think I'm simple?"

"I think you want me to think you're simple."

Zevran's smile had a particular edge to it that gave Alistair a small thrill that went straight to his groin. He had no idea smiles could do that until right that moment. "That was almost perceptive, Alistair."

"Almost, huh?" Alistair responded, mostly because he could not think of anything else to say. He liked the way Zevran said his name too much. Zevran seemed to be closer to him than before, and Alistair found he didn't want Zevran to back off. He actually wanted Zevran closer. It could have been the Antivan brandy, but Alistair doubted it. He barely felt the brandy.

Zevran leaned forward until his lips brushed against Alistair's ear. "You should really get some sleep," he whispered.

"Maybe you should help me." Alistair closed his fingers around Zevran's wrist, though he left them loose enough for Zevran to easily escape his grip. "I have trouble sleeping sometimes."

Zevran studied Alistair's hand over his wrist, silent for a long moment. It seemed as if he were considering Alistair's offer. The hesitation seemed odd, for Zevran always seemed so eager for sex, but how Zevran seemed did not necessarily mean that was how Zevran was. Alistair had learned that much over the years. He waited until Zevran turned back to face him, his expression unreadable.

"If you don't want to, you don't have to," Alistair said, suddenly regretting the offer. Perhaps Zevran had only played games with him, as he did everyone. It was a stupid idea, in any case. Zevran was a man, and Alistair had never—

"I didn't say that." Zevran continued to study him. "But do you really want to?"

Alistair's regrets faded away under Zevran's gaze. He nodded. "I don't offer unless I mean it. Besides, it might help me sleep."

"You're the very soul of romance, I see," Zevran said, and leaned forward to brush his lips against Alistair's jaw.

"Maybe we should move this to my tent," Alistair said, suddenly realizing Isabela could pass this way at any moment. He didn't perform well in front of audiences.

Zevran stood up in one fluid motion. "If you insist." He disappeared into Alistair's tent without another word.

Alistair hesitated for only a moment before following. He may not have been with a man before, but he was certain he could get by with secondhand knowledge. Sex was not something that required years of research and practice. Even Orlesians muddled through it.

Inside the tent, Zevran made himself at home on Alistair's bedroll. When Alistair entered and sat down, he leaned forward, looking Alistair intently in the eyes. The directness of it disarmed Alistair. He opened his mouth to speak, but before he could utter a single word, Zevran put a finger to his lips. What Alistair had intended to say was swiftly forgotten when Zevran pressed his lips to Alistair's jaw again. Alistair's eyes fluttered closed.

Zevran chuckled and moved his way down to suck on Alistair's collar bone. Alistair shivered and grabbed Zevran's shoulders, finding the simple act almost overwhelming. Zevran paused and glanced up, smirking in that sharp way he had. That look on his face heated Alistair through, and he pushed Zevran back on the blankets. Zevran's eyes widened.

It occurred to Alistair that his size might intimidate Zevran. After all, Zevran had compared human men to bears only the day before. "Is it okay?" Alistair asked.

"You're ruining the mood a bit, I think," Zevran said, snickering a bit. He sat up a bit to suck on Alistair's neck. "If it wasn't okay, I'd just slip a dagger between your ribs."

"I'd prefer you to tell me it's not okay before you resort to stabbing me, if it's all the same to you," Alistair murmured. He closed his eyes again. He rather liked Zevran's fixation with sucking. He wondered what else Zevran might suck, if given incentive.

"Your preference is noted," Zevran whispered, and slipped his hands down to undo Alistair's belt. Alistair hooked his fingers into the sides of Zevran's trousers and slid them down, his knuckles rubbing against Zevran's bare hips. They felt like bone and sinew. The tattoos curved over Zevran's hips still hidden by the rest of his trousers

Alistair was distracted from discovering more tattoos when Zevran undid Alistair's trousers and reached inside, taking Alistair's cock in his warm hand. Alistair's mind went blank, before narrowing to the feeling of Zevran gently stroking his length. Perhaps it had simply been too long since he'd last gotten laid, or perhaps it was that Zevran seemed to know all the sensitive spots to brush his fingers against, but Zevran left Alistair gasping. Alistair's fingers remained curled around Zevran's half-removed trousers. A small part of him was amazed he was letting Zevran, of all people, do this. The rest of him, too busy enjoying the moment, quickly silenced that part. It didn't matter how he got there. He was there, Zevran was there, and it felt damn good.

"Hmm? Something to say, Alistair?" Zevran asked, now rubbing his thumb against the tip of Alistair's cock. Alistair shuddered, convinced his entire body had gone red. When Zevran brushed against his slit, another strange noise escaped his mouth. It was too much. Alistair's whole body felt over-warm, but his cock burned in Zevran's hand. He felt full of wants, only half of which he could even name. All of them involved parts of Zevran's body.

Zevran's grip on Alistair's cock tightened, and the slide of his fingers hastened. As the speed and tightness grew, so did Alistair's enjoyment. He gripped Zevran's waist, pulling him closer, wanting to feel Zevran's skin against his. His entire body radiated heat, and he couldn't think of anything clearly beyond Zevran's hand on his cock. He dug his fingernails into Zevran's back and gave a cry before he finally came, reality flashing white before he returned to his senses. He shivered as echoes of his orgasm passed throughout his body. He was pretty sure another groan escaped him. He'd never been very good at being quiet, but he found he didn't care who had heard him.

"Now, that's what I like to hear," Zevran said, licking his hand clean. He smiled again, and though Alistair had just come, that smile still made him want Zevran. Since he'd already been given permission, he didn't hesitate to push Zevran on his back again. Zevran continued to smirk at him, and Alistair wanted nothing more than to wipe that smirk off his face, even if it did drive him wild.

"This is the part where you stop talking," Alistair said, and tugged Zevran's trousers the rest of the way off. He studied the way Zevran's tattoos continued to curve and wind over his flesh, down past his cock, over his thighs, a mysterious path that led Alistair's gaze to rove over Zevran's entire body. Zevran was already hard, his cock as smooth-looking as the rest of him. Alistair wondered if he would enjoy it, but decided it didn't matter. Zevran deserved his turn, too.

"Oh?" Zevran asked. "There's not a lot that you can think of to make me— _oh_!" The moment Alistair wrapped his lips around Zevran's cock, Zevran did indeed cease speaking. However, he didn't stop making noises, which was just fine by Alistair. He rather liked the sounds Zevran made. It gave him a sense of accomplishment.

Alistair took more of Zevran's cock into his mouth. H had never sucked another man's cock before, but the same principle that satisfied him seemed to work just fine on Zevran. The smell was a bit strange. Not like the smells Alistair associated with any human. It was Zevran's own unique scent, a heady smell Alistair could get to like. Zevran tasted salty-sweet on his tongue, which was also surprisingly pleasant. When Alistair started to suck, Zevran made more pleasing sounds and arched his back. Alistair continued to suck, finding himself rather absorbed in the small reactions Zevran gave him: moaning, arching backs, trembling thoughts, the taste of intensely salty precum. When Zevran grabbed Alistair's hair and yanked hard, whispering that he was about to come, Alistair was grateful, otherwise he might not have known to brace himself. Zevran came more gently than Alistair had, and Alistair swallowed what he was given before sitting up.

Zevran lay on the blankets, his long hair a sweaty mess by now. He studied Alistair without saying anything, eyes half-closed. He smiled again, the same smile that made Alistair's cock twitch. It wouldn't be too long before he was ready for another go. But until then, he lay on the blankets beside Zevran, studying him. He debated saying anything, but it didn't seem necessary, especially after Zevran kissed his chin, ever so gently.

Alistair closed his eyes and smiled. Whatever strange path had led them to this moment, he was grateful for it.

...

_Next Chapter = >_


	4. Chapter 4

…

"Get moving," Hawke barked outside Alistair's tent, startling him awake. He had not realized he had fallen asleep. He glanced to his right, and found Zevran still asleep, apparently immune to Hawke's sharp voice.

In as much time as it took him to sit up, Alistair almost regretted having sex with Zevran the second time. Then he might have had more sleep, and wouldn't feel as if someone had thrown him in a rucksack and beat him with heavy sticks. The problem, of course, was that he wouldn't have had sex with Zevran a second time, and it had been pretty amazing. He groaned and shook Zevran awake.

"Time to go already?" Zevran asked with a yawn and sat up with a grace that suggested lack of sleep did not affect him the same way it did Alistair.

Alistair didn't answer right away, because he was distracted by Zevran's bare back again. It truly was marvelous, the way his muscles moved beneath bronzed skin, sending those wing-like tattoos aflutter. Alistair rested a hand on Zevran's back, recalling being inside him not that long ago. Zevran glanced back at him, blinking a bit before the corners of his mouth turned up.

"Yeah. We ought to get moving." Alistair withdrew his hand and reached for his clothes. He could hear Zevran rustling about for his own clothing. A pity. Alistair discovered he rather preferred Zevran without clothes on now.

Alistair was almost dressed when Zevran's lips brushed his ear. "Perhaps I can help you sleep again tonight." He slipped out then, leaving the flap swaying in his absence. Alistair sighed and laced up his boots, wishing it was night again.

When Alistair finished packing up, he found he was the last one ready. Even Zevran had finished before him, which irritated Alistair to no end. Zevran hadn't even slept in his own tent. Hawke had her arms crossed, lips thin and eyes hard. She had not a single ounce of patience to spare, it turned out.

"Let's go," she said as Alistair approached. She turned to stare down the rocky slope towards the ruins of the Warden's keep. "We've wasted more than enough time."

"Let's hope Anders is waiting for us, still. I'd like to settle our argument," Fenris growled, and proceeded down the path with his hand gripped tightly around his overly large blade.

"Oh, this will be a fun adventure," Isabela said in a tone that suggested otherwise.

Hawke shook her head and followed Fenris. The rest of group fell into line. Somehow, Zevran wound up just ahead of Alistair, and that was fine by him. They always were good at fighting at each other's backs—even back when they hadn't liked each other.

…

The ruins were quiet, cool, and dark, even during the day. Alistair felt no more comfortable entering it than he would at night. The only saving grace was that sunlight could stream through the cracks and holes left behind by crumbled stone. Nothing stirred inside, not even ghosts. Alistair found that odd. If an abomination were here, shouldn't this place be crawling with undead and demonic spirits, just as Redcliffe had been?

Zevran had dropped behind Alistair somewhere around the second hallway. Fenris remained on point, with Hawke right behind him. Neither of them trusted the other to do the right thing with Anders, it seemed. Alistair decided to keep out of this. He did not know Anders, and he privately thought both Fenris and Hawke had a point. And blood magic still made him uneasy. There was a part of him that would always be a templar.

The deeper they traveled through the eerily silent halls, the more noises they could hear. It was not the sound of any recognizable creature; even the spider webs were torn. The closer they got to it, the louder and clearer it became.

"That's the sound of a man," Isabela said.

"Specifically, a man weeping," Zevran added.

Fenris scowled. "Human. It sounds human."

Hawke stared at something in the corner, until she suddenly jumped back, her eyes wide. "Giant spiders!"

Alistair winced as Zevran pointed a torch at them. He knew all about giant spiders. Tori, for some reason, had been a magnet for them. Almost everywhere they had gone seemed to involve the cursed things. But these spiders did not move. They remained still, their legs curled up around their broken bodies, clearly dead.

"Dead spiders, no demons, no undead, nothing." Hawke looked at Fenris. "This is not the lair of an abomination."

Fenris glared at her. "But it is the lair of a mass murderer." He turned away and took the stairs leading below.

Alistair hurried past the pile of giant spider corpses and down the stairs after Fenris. Whatever Anders was or was not, whatever he had done or not done, he was dangerous. That much was clear. After a moment, Alistair felt a presence behind him. When he glanced back, Zevran smiled at him. It had the sharp edge to it that sent thrill through straight to Alistair's groin, so he looked away after briefly returning it. He needed to focus on their situation, not on Zevran's mouth.

The stairs led down into a large hall. Alistair suspected this was the dining hall, given its size and the rotting remains of what might have been long tables. The sound of weeping—now clearly audible even to Alistair's human ears—seemed to be coming from what might have been the servants' quarters towards the back. Only a few bits of the floor above had crumbled away, leaving precious few patches of sunlight to light their way through the large hall. As they approached the door, the weeping stopped.

Moving faster than Alistair might have expected from an elf with a sword nearly as tall as he was, Fenris darted into the blackened entrance, unsheathing his blade as he went. Hawke cried out behind Alistair, but Alistair didn't hear her words before rushing into the room as well.

Fenris stood in the center of the room, by a man sitting on a half-rotten stool. Fenris's sword hung limp in his hand, and he glared down at who Alistair presumed to be Anders. "Stop looking like that."

The man called Anders glanced up. Tears had worn trails of pale skin beneath the dirt that otherwise covered his entire body. Long blond hair hung in filthy tangles about his face, and his fingernails were cracked. His clothes bore bloodstains and filth. The smell in this room was definitely ripe, but it was not the smell of abomination. Whatever was wrong with Anders made the hairs on Alistair's neck stand on end, but it was not demonic.

"Stop looking like what?" Anders asked, his voice hoarse.

"Like you're the victim in all this," Fenris hissed.

Anders looked down. "So close your eyes and swing your blade. It's what you've wanted to do to me for years. To all mages."

Hawke ran into the room, but Alistair held up an arm and shook his head. Whatever was happening right now needed to be worked out on its own. Hawke paused, watching Fenris and Anders, her brow furrowed.

"If I wanted to kill all mages, I would have done that years ago and likely died in the trying. But I didn't. Instead, it is you that killed them. Even the innocent ones. Even the strong ones. By starting a war, you've signed all their death warrants. Who really hates mages? The evidence does not suggest me."

"How logical." Anders rubbed his face, smearing dirt across it. "You weren't so reasonable on the mountain a couple of days ago."

Fenris scowled. "Neither were you. You nearly killed me, mage."

"It wasn't me." Tears started trail down Anders's face. "It wasn't me."

"So you admit you're abomination?"

Hawke pushed past Alistair and stopped a few feet from Anders. "Was it really you alone that blew up the Kirkwall Chantry, Anders? Truly?"

Anders closed his eyes. "Not all me," he whispered.

Fenris looked away, working his jaw. Hawke reached towards him. "I can help you. Like I couldn't help Feynriel all those years ago. Let me help you, Anders." She pulled out a knife, but Anders knocked it from her hand.

"No," Anders said. "I won't let you risk abomination because of me. I won't let any more mages suffer because of me."

Hawke gave Anders a blazingly intense look. "The only other way to do this is how they do it during the Harrowing in a Circle. With lots of lyrium. We don't have that."

Fenris sighed and took off his shirt. It seemed like an odd thing to do until Alistair saw the trail of unusual tattoos winding around his back and chest, more intricate than even Zevran's. "Yes, we do." Everyone's attention snapped to him, but it still took him a moment to further explain. "The original purpose of my tattoos was to provide a lyrium battery for my master. The abilities I received were unintended benefits."

"You would do that?" Anders eyes wide, as if he'd never seen Fenris before in his life. "For me?"

Fenris glared at him. "For Hawke."

Anders seemed to accept that and bowed his head. "If it fails, just kill me this time. Please."

Hawke studied Fenris and closed her eyes. "Thank you," she whispered, and took his arm.

What followed next, Alistair could not fully understand. He had only attended one Harrowing, and this was nothing like that. Hawke seemed to know what she was doing, at least. She held both Fenris's and Anders's arms, and they both glowed as magic began to crackle around them. Everything about them seemed very still. Alistair wasn't even sure if they were breathing, but he knew better than to check at this moment. Magic like this was delicate work. Zevran sat in a corner, tending the torches, unusually quiet. Even more unnerving was Isabela's silence as she paced in a circle around Hawke, Fenris, and Anders, waiting, watching, visibly tense.

It seemed like hours passed before anything changed. Anders ceased glowing first and slumped back, gasping. A moment later, Fenris stopped glowing and collapsed to the ground. Hawke stood, shakily, and glanced around. "It is done. Vengeance is no more." Her knees gave out after that, but unlike the two men, she had someone to catch her. Isabela smiled and buried her face in Hawke's hair.

Alistair took a deep breath. Somehow, it seemed everything had turned out right. He hadn't known this feeling in years.

…

They spent the next three days in camp, outside the ruins. Whatever had happened in there, the place was too unsettling to stay in. Everyone rested and recovered and tried to sort out their lives.

Fenris seemed to take the longest to recover. He could not stand, and he slept the days away. Anders, who took only a day to recover, cared for him most of the time. Isabela took care of Hawke, who also took her time. None of them spoke of the Fade or what they had done in it. They only said it was done.

On the morning of the fourth day, Alistair packed up his tent after seeing everyone bustling about. Zevran helped him. Since the night before they entered the Grey Warden ruins, he had spent his nights in Alistair's tent. Alistair had slept very well. Well, after he and Zevran had spent all their sexual energy, at least.

"So," Hawke asked, her arms crossed as she stared at the burning embers in their campfire, "what is everyone going to do now?"

"Well, since we settled this Anders problem, can we _please_ go find my ship?" Isabela asked.

Hawke's smile was fleeting. "Of course." She turned to Anders and Fenris. "But what will you do?"

Anders glanced at Fenris, then at Hawke. "I'm going to Tevinter."

"Tevinter?" Hawke blinked and glanced at Fenris, who merely shrugged.

"I've an awful lot to atone for, and Tevinter has an awful lot of people I could help." Anders continued to study Fenris. Now that he was cleaned and groomed, he seemed a different man than the pathetic creature they found in the ruins. "It's what he wants to do, so I'll follow."

"Well, that was awful quick," Isabela said. "I expected Alistair and Zevran—Zevran moves fast." Alistair blanched at the baldness of that statement, but Isabela continued. "But you two?"

"Don't misunderstand," Fenris said, scowling, "I will go to Tevinter to help the slaves. Danarius is dead, so there's no reason to avoid my home any longer. Especially since there is much I need to say to my sister. And I will keep an eye on this wretch. Should he fail again, I will end him."

"That's neighborly of you," Isabela said, blinking. Anders shrugged. He seemed willing to subject himself to Fenris's judgment.

Hawke nodded, then turned to Alistair and Zevran. "You?"

"Well, I was supposed to bring back a certain apostate to the Divine, but he apparently has escaped me and made his way to parts unknown. I'd better report this and accept whatever demotion they give me." Alistair glanced at Anders, who nodded once. "They'll send me again. Or another. I'm just warning you." Anders nodded again, seemingly accepting the additional burden to his lot in life. It wasn't like he could be indignant, given his crimes.

Alistair looked to Zevran. "What about you?" he asked, in a more gentle tone.

Zevran smiled again, the same smug smile that made Alistair wish they were alone in his tent again. "I'm between jobs at the moment, so I've decided to see what your path offers me. After all, even Grey Wardens have need of assassins."

Alistair grinned a bit, despite himself. "On occasion, I won't deny it."

Hawke nodded once. "Then it's settled. We part ways here. Stay safe."

…

The Vimmark Mountains stretched out before Alistair, with even the most gentle of its slopes studded with dangerously sharp rocks. The wind buffeted them, bringing the scent of flowering trees with it. When Alistair glanced behind him, Zevran arched an eyebrow at him. Alistair smiled at him, despite himself. Zevran returned the smile after a moment, the sharp edge to it promising a very pleasant evening once they made camp.

It was hardly the way he ever imagined his life turning out, but it was enough for Alistair. He turned back to their path and made his way against the wind.

_End._


End file.
